Flinch laughed as Don Mackeson walked away.
“What’s so funny?” he asked, looking back over his shoulder.
Even now, still stunned and deep into day dreams of stardom, Flinch waited just a fraction of a second before speaking so his reply would have the perfect timing. “I never saw that coming.”
martin dwells on a box
“YOU’D THINK A couple of engineering students would be smart enough to keep their gas tank filled,” Martin muttered. He couldn’t believe the nightmare he’d been through.
They hadn’t gone more than five miles when the car ran out of gas on some side road in the middle of nowhere. Neither of the guys had remembered to charge his cell phone. After arguing for ten minutes about the best way to go, the two of them took off to look for a gas station. Martin waited. He waited some more. He didn’t have a watch, so he couldn’t tell how much time had passed, but it seemed like a couple hours. Finally, he decided to start walking.
As he walked, he couldn’t help reliving a day that was even darker. “I still can’t believe it.” It had been so horrible. And so sudden. He could remember every detail of that frozen morning in January when he’d learned the news about Trash. Of all of them, Trash had the most awesome power—the greatest potential of all. And he’d thrown it away for a joy ride. Martin had the newspaper clipping in his room. He didn’t like to look at it, but he couldn’t bear to throw it away. That was absolutely the worst day of his life. So far.
Eventually, he reached a small town. Everything was closed. The clock in front of a bank flashed the news that it was 12:14. After wandering around for another half hour, Martin decided the best place to sleep would be in a narrow alley next to a shoe store. There were a bunch of empty cardboard boxes piled in a Dumpster. Martin spread them out and drifted through the night until the sound of morning traffic woke him.
He staggered out of the alley, stiff from sleeping on collapsed boxes, wishing he could brush his teeth. He smoothed back his hair and looked around, not quite sure where he was.
Drop dead …
“Oh yeah,” he said as yesterday’s highlight reel played through his head.
He wandered a couple blocks, and then saw a green sign with an arrow pointing to the left, SAYERTON 8 MILES.
Martin stared at the sign as if it were a magical relic. Sayerton. That was where Trash lived. He wouldn’t be there, but his parents would. Martin figured they might even let him stay overnight. Or feed him. Either way, it would break up his trip to Cheater’s house.
Maybe he could catch another ride. Even if he had to walk, it wouldn’t take that long. Four miles an hour, Martin thought. That was how fast people walked.
Or I can go back home.
No way. Not yet. If he came back so soon, looking like a scruffy stray cat after less than a full day on his own, he’d never hear the end of it from his dad. There was no choice. Right now, he was on a one-way road.
A CONVERSATION BETWEEN
MR. CALABRIZI AND DR. KELNER
DR. KELNER: I really think it might help us get through to him.
MR. CALABRIZI: But why Philadelphia?
DR. KELNER: We don’t know. It must have some special meaning for him. That doesn’t matter right now. I just think if we move him, we may see some progress.
MR. CALABRIZI: Sure, if you think it will help. We have to try it. I don’t see how it can make things any worse.
PART THREE
which covers a
thursday that makes
Wednesday seem like a day of rest
there and back again
BOWDLER WAS INJECTING something into my arm. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. He put a tube down my throat that pumped air into my lungs and then sucked it back out. The tube kept me alive, but made me wish I was dead.
“Move the marble, Eddie.”
I woke up screaming, amazed that my paralyzed body could fling itself out of bed. As my cries echoed against the bedroom walls, I realized where I was and crawled to the window to make sure the sound of my terror hadn’t reached outside. A strange car was still parked at the curb across the street. I held my breath and waited, but the door of the black sedan remained shut.
The dream had been awful. But the worst part was that my mind hadn’t invented anything. This wasn’t a random dream. This was a memory. For one of his tests, Bowdler had injected me with something that paralyzed my muscles. My heart could still beat, but my limbs froze and my lungs didn’t work.
“Move the marble, Eddie.” His dead-dog eyes showed no emotion as he hovered over me, one hand on the tube that was keeping me alive. Unable to blink, unable to twitch a single finger, I floated the marble for him.
I’d escaped the dream by waking up. I had no idea how I could escape the memory. Except by thinking about other, worse memories. I backed away from the curtain, sat on the floor beneath the window, and tried to figure out what to do.